"Shame I'm such rotter, Moira. Beas'ly shame. I'm not half bad sort if leave me 'lone. I was sick—out there. Head of Levinski—grinned at me. Gold tooth—grinned at me—in wheatfield——"
"Come, Harry," she broke in again, "lean on me. I'll help you to bed."
"Ah, I was sick awright——" he shuddered, oblivious of her. "Makes me sick now—think of it. Jus' a head, Moira, nothin' else. But God! What a head!"
"It won't do you any good now to think about that," she put in quickly, for he was shivering as though with a chill.
"No. No goo' now. Awf' rotter, ain't I?"
"Come——"
He stumbled to his feet and she helped him to support himself.
"Will you forgive me, Moira?"
"Of course."
And as she urged him out of the door toward the vacant room, "Knew y'would," he mumbled. And then, "Goo' ol' Moira!"